Project Doom
by FortunaMinor
Summary: Hermione and Draco find themselves attending the same wizarding university. How will things play out when the unlikely pair are made Transfigurations partners?
1. Chapter 1

**One Angry Hermione**

"I hate you!" came the furious shout of Hermione Granger.

"Come off it, you silly bint! I'm trying to speak with you!"

"Get out of my room, Malfoy!" He crossed his arms and leaned onto the doorframe.

"Not until we discuss our Transfiguration project, Granger! I won't fail because of your little tantrum!"

"_Flagrate!"_ the irate witch bellowed, brandishing her wand toward the intruder. The ropes of flame were rushing toward Draco Malfoy and he quickly jumped backwards to avoid being set on fire. _"Colloportus!"_ she hissed when he was sufficiently out of the way. He stood by and watched the door slam in his face and seal itself with an odd squelching noise. The blonde wizard sighed heavily and set off for his own room at the opposite end of the hall. He still couldn't believe he would be subjected to Granger every day for a semester—he had graduated Hogwarts and _still_ had to endure her presence. Naturally, she'd followed him to university and even had the nerve to live in the same residence hall—on the same hallway—taking two of the same classes—she'd even been chosen as his Transfiguration partner. In that moment, Draco cursed the fates, the fact that there was only one very good wizarding university in England, Professor Trumbull, and, especially, Hermione Granger.

"You are aware, Mr. Malfoy, that you are the first student to approach me with such a request?" The fearsome Professor Trumbull was looking at Draco as if he were trying to contemplate the best way to squash him.

"This term?" Draco asked for clarification.

"_Ever_," the stern wizard said crossly.

Immediately after leaving the dormitory…well, immediately after Granger had slammed her door in his face, he'd gone back into the Transfiguration building to seek out the man before him. Though it was absurd to think, Draco thought if Professors McGonagall and Snape were to have a child—this man would be the result. He was ill tempered, strict, not necessarily fair, and, much like the Gryffindor Head of House, he didn't seem to care for Draco—Malfoy or not.

"I'm terribly sorry for the imposition, sir," Draco began, and he truly was. This was hardly the way to start out his post-Hogwarts education. "But Granger is unreasonable. When I approached her to arrange a study schedule she tried to set me on fire."

Professor Trumbull snickered unpleasantly, and it was then that Draco Malfoy knew his fate was sealed. "Then I suppose you'll have to work that much harder, Mr. Malfoy. Good day to you." The wizard swept from the classroom without a second thought for the anguished blonde behind him.

Draco firmed his resolve—he would not let Granger, that unpleasant cow, ruin his academic career; he knew he would have to act swiftly. He made his way back to the residence hall both he and Granger occupied, passing his own room and heading directly for hers. He knocked on the door in a firm, but still polite, manner and heard, "Go _away_, Malfoy," for his troubles.

He shook his head at how such a thought could enter his head at the time—but it occurred to him that this was the only time a woman had turned him away at their bedroom door. He knocked again…and again…and again.

After nearly twenty minutes, during which passing students gawked at him snickering, she flung the door open and had her wand pointed directly at him. "I told you to go away," she hissed at him.

"And obviously, I didn't listen," he said impatiently as he knocked her wand to the side and strode into her room. She looked apoplectic, the rage wafting off of her in waves; Draco was unimpressed—he'd seen her temper on display many times before. "I've been to see Professor Trumbull, and he refuses to assign us different partners for our project. Sad as it is, we're stuck with each other until December and there's absolutely nothing we can do about it."

"I hate you," she grumbled as she picked up her wand from where it had rolled beneath her desk.

"And I'm equally thrilled to put up with your attitude and your temper. Tell me, do you regularly try to set blokes on fire when you're on?"

Her eyes widened in shock as she realised what he'd asked—how dare he assume that this had anything to do with hormones or menstruation.

Draco became conscious of his mistake nearly as soon as the words left his mouth, but he'd be damned if he'd apologise to the harpy standing before him.

She clenched her jaw, "I'm going to pretend you never said that, but know that if you say such a thing in the future, a simple flame spell will be the least of your worries."

"Fair enough," he told her. He'd never admit to anyone that he was a bit afraid of Granger. Yes, she had punched him out in third year, and it was similarly true that she had beaten him in a duel during seventh—but her look of cold fury was making him regret his words, for he was sure they would not help his cause. "I shouldn't have said that."

"And?" she said expectantly.

Draco snorted, the chit wanted him to apologise. "_And_ we should set a schedule for our project. What days are you free?"

"I'll be available on weekdays after four, and anytime on weekends," she said cautiously, accepting that he would not apologise and that cooperating would make him leave more quickly.

"What, Granger? No bloke to tie up your time?" He closed his eyes tightly the minute he'd finished speaking—what on earth was wrong with him? Why couldn't he go more than a minute without insulting her or making deliberately inflammatory statements?

"I've had enough of you for the day, Malfoy. Leave."

He was actually rather surprised—he'd expected, at best, a tongue-lashing, and, at worst, an unpleasant hex of some sort. "Right, so Wednesday at half past six?"

"Fine," she ground out, sincerely wishing that he would just go.

"See you, then," Draco said as he edged toward the door, still not entirely convinced he would escape unscathed.

When Hermione had closed the door behind him, she went into the tiny bathroom to retrieve a phial of headache remedy…something told her she'd be needing a great deal of it this term. It was Monday afternoon, and she wouldn't have to deal with Draco Malfoy outside of class until Wednesday. Sighing, she plopped gracelessly onto her neatly made bed; all the time in the world couldn't prepare her for _that_.

"Are you alright?" Harry asked her over lunch the following day. She had been surprised to receive an invitation that morning, but two free hours in the early afternoon led her to accept.

"Huh?"

"What's with you?"

She could tell Harry was concerned and decided to be forthright with him, "I've been partnered with Malfoy for my Transfiguration project this term; it's got me a bit on-edge, is all."

"You can't get out of it?" Harry demanded, horrified that she'd be required to work with him. Yes, Voldemort had finally been topped, and no, Draco hadn't fought along side his father, but that didn't change the fact that he was a right git; he told Hermione as much.

"He's tried already," she told him dejectedly.

"What did you do?"

"Besides attempt to set him on fire and lock him out of my room?" Harry raised an eyebrow, "Not much."

"You tried to set him on fire?"

She looked irritated, "He caught me going into my room—oh, he lives right down the hallway, naturally—and stopped for a chat."

"He just tried to talk to you?" Harry asked, trying to understand what had driven Hermione to set Malfoy on fire.

"He was just leaning in my doorway insisting that we devise a project schedule and I'd had a terrible day and he wouldn't leave, Harry."

The green-eyed wizard, though he loved his friend, couldn't help but snicker. "So he was being perfectly civil, and you tried to set him on fire."

"Yes," she sniffed.

Harry smiled at her; she had always been above reproach—from he and Ron, at least—and he wouldn't dare criticise her. His smile was more from imagining Malfoy's reaction at nearly being roasted by the sulking witch before him.

"So what's this project about?" Harry asked as he took the untouched half-sandwich from Hermione's plate; she didn't reprimand him—Ron had done such things countless times and she'd long since learned to live with it.

"I haven't the faintest clue," she responded honestly. "Professor Trumbull handed out partner assignments, had us move desks to sit with our partners, and then began lecturing on the project itself. By the time he began lecturing, I was in shock—and sitting next to Malfoy. I've already begun calling it 'Project Doom.'"

"I've always loved your optimism, Hermione."

Generally, Hermione's classes were rather entertaining and she didn't have the least bit of trouble paying attention; Wednesday was a completely different story. She was an absolute wreck—she hadn't slept the night before, her stomach was in knots, she couldn't eat a bite. Hermione thought the three-month project with Draco Malfoy would probably kill her.

She assumed Malfoy was perfectly unaffected by the arrangement—why would he fret at having to spend time with her? Besides the punch he'd deserved in third year, she'd never actually harmed him…even if she did sort of try to set him on fire; he tried to bring her down every time he saw her.

Hermione felt the slightest rush of guilt as her malicious inner-voice reminded her that classes had been in session for two weeks and that he hadn't said one word to her before they'd been partnered together. He'd cringed when he received his partner assignment, but he hadn't sneered at her or called her a mudblood; in fact, he seemed content to pretend as if she didn't exist and that suited Hermione perfectly.

The rest of the class gathering their books and exiting the classroom interrupted her thoughts—Hermione would need to ask her neighbour if she'd missed anything important. She watched the clock all day, her sense of dread growing with each passing hour; by the time six o'clock actually arrived, Hermione Granger was a nervous wreck.

She flitted about her room unnecessarily tidying things that were neat to begin with—she was cursing herself for her inability to sit still when a knock at her door startled her.

Hermione tried to gather her thoughts, to calm herself down, to appear as if she weren't positively mental—though she knew that, with the way she was behaving, she very well might _be_ mental.

Gulping in a deep breath, she opened the door to find Draco Malfoy both loaded down with books and looking completely poised; while she would normally respect someone who could maintain such cool detachment, it was Malfoy and she loathed him for it. His muttered greeting made her move aside stupidly as he came forward and began setting out books and hauling out various papers.

The first hour had been the most difficult, Hermione decided in retrospect. They had sniped at each other several times, and gotten into an outright shouting match when it came time to decide the topic of their research. In the end, though, he had been the one to step away and sit quietly as she fumed. At the end of her tirade, after she had lost steam, she told him that his research up until then had been solid and that his proposal was a good one; she never thought her own words could pain her so much.

Rather than gloat, as she expected—and half-wanted—him to, he merely nodded and gave her a list of books to research from until their next meeting. She bristled and demanded to know why she was restricted to a list; he told her it was so that they wouldn't turn up having researched the same book. His logic made her face flush with shame, though he didn't comment.

When he had gathered up all he'd brought, he'd turned to her, "Are you able to meet on Saturday?"

"I had planned on having dinner with my parents that evening, but the morning or afternoon would be alright."

He nodded thoughtfully, "I've got prior obligations that afternoon…would nine be alright?"

Hermione nodded; she never slept past seven anyway. He excused himself with a brief, "See you." As she closed the door behind him, grumpily noting that she could still smell him in the room, she decided that the three-month project with Draco Malfoy would undoubtedly kill her.


	2. Chapter 2

**Project Doom**

Part II

_By: FortunaMinor_

Hermione, despite the fact the she _never_ slept past seven o'clock, found herself crawling out of bed at half past eight; she would rather die than to allow Draco Malfoy to see her in her night clothes, especially feeling poorly as she did. Showering quickly before dressing, brushing her teeth and pulling her hair into a sloppy ponytail made her look halfway presentable, though she felt anything but.

Precisely at nine, the expected knock came and Hermione pulled the door open revealing Draco to be looking as he always did—impeccably dressed without one hair out of place; she thought it should be illegal to look so flawless when she felt so utterly wretched.

"Good gods, Granger, are you alright?"

In that moment, Hermione Granger deeply desired to get into her bed and never get up. "I'm feeling a bit under the weather." After assuring him that she was well enough to continue working on their project, they settled down and did exactly that, though it didn't last for long. Hermione, though she tried valiantly to act as though nothing were wrong, was feeling more and more ill with each passing minute. An hour into their session, she had been about to apologise to Malfoy for the inconvenience and beg off in order to crawl into her bed and die, her cellular phone rang from her bedside table.

"Excuse me," she mumbled while he looked at the thing curiously. "Hello?"

"Are you ill?" Helen Granger asked at once.

Hermione winced—did she truly sound so terrible? "I'm a bit under the weather," she repeated to her mother as she'd told Draco.

"You sound horrible."

"Thank you, mum," Hermione said before giving a hacking cough.

"Are you in bed? I worry about you being off alone, and now you're ill…"

"I'll be fine, mum, but no I'm not in bed. I'm working on my Transfigurations project and my partner is sitting at my desk—probably impatiently—so is there anything in particular that you needed?"

"Is your Transfiguration partner a boy?"

Hermione sighed as the headache she was developing blossomed full force, "Yes, mum."

"Is he handsome?"

"We are not having this conversation, mum. I have to go."

"Wait, Hermione," Helen said before her daughter could hang up, "I wanted to tell you that your father and I will be attending a dinner party tonight so I'm afraid we'll have to cancel."

"Cancelling plans with your only child? What kind of mother are you?" Hermione asked, though she certainly wasn't upset—she would go to bed the moment Malfoy left and she wouldn't move until Monday morning.

"The kind that hopes your Transfiguration partner is handsome; goodbye, darling."

Hermione set the phone down, willing herself to forget her mother's words.

"Everything alright?" Draco asked from behind her; she whirled to face him.

"Oh, sorry," she said hastily with a sniffle. "My parents have cancelled dinner this evening."

Draco smirked and began gathering their research materials—taking both the notes he'd compiled _and_ hers; she wouldn't be able to do a thing without them. "Then I recommend that you take to your bed immediately; you look and sound dreadful. I'll see you Tuesday at seven."

Draco saw himself out, and Hermione couldn't find the energy to care that he'd taken her work; it was unlikely that she'd be up for intense research in the next couple of days. Hermione didn't bother changing into her discarded pyjamas; she simply shucked off her jeans and slid into bed wearing only a t-shirt. As sick individuals are prone to do, Hermione slept for a great deal of the day, waking only to go to the loo and to answer the phone assuring Harry that it was unnecessary for him to come to see about her.

She was only half-awake when she heard a tentative knock at her door—it had been so light, she thought it might have been someone knocking on her neighbour's door. She closed her eyes and began to drift off once more, but when her door opened she sat up abruptly. Draco Malfoy was standing in her room and he was holding a brown paper bag.

"I didn't mean to wake you."

"I wasn't quite asleep," she said honestly before considering what a frightful mess she undoubtedly presented.

He moved to her bedside table and deposited the bag onto it, she thought he looked a bit nervous, but she dismissed it as a hallucination due to fever.

"I've gone by the infirmary," he explained. "There's enough Pepper-Up to last you until Monday, but if you're still ill by then, the mediwitch would like to see you. I've also brought some soup so you don't starve yourself all weekend."

She was startled by this unexpected thoughtfulness, and made to get out of bed, "Thank you; you didn't have to…"

Draco abruptly turned away from her, making a point of looking anywhere other than directly at her—Hermione was completely bewildered…until she realised she was standing _on_ her jeans, rather than standing _in_ them, and that her legs were completely bare. When the blood rushed to her face in what had to be the fiercest blush in the history of the world, Hermione felt dizzy; she hastily slipped into her jeans and plopped onto the bed. The creak of her bed made Malfoy turn toward her, and though Hermione wanted to keep her eyes on the floor, she chanced a glance at him. His normally pale cheeks had a tinge of pink to them and he was looking at her, though studiously avoiding her gaze.

"Make sure you take that Pepper-Up right away," he told her. She noted that his tone was exceptionally light which, as she had recently learned, was a tone he took only when he was extremely uncomfortable.

"Thank you," she managed feebly. "Now if you'll excuse me, I'm going to have dinner, cure myself of this cold, and then die from embarrassment."

Draco chuckled as he made to turn the doorknob; he dared to look directly at her…judging by the intense flush on her cheeks that was entirely unrelated to her illness, he didn't doubt her sincerity in the slightest. "You can beat yourself up a bit, but you won't die, well, maybe if you don't take that potion I went to the trouble of bringing, but I have it on good authority that it's physically impossible to die from embarrassment or boredom." She looked beyond miserable and he resisted the urge to laugh at her, "Come on, Granger—your legs are rather more shapely than I would have suspected."

Her eyes snapped to his and he saw annoyance in the brown orbs, "Goodbye, Malfoy." He left without another word, only a small snicker at her expense.

Once Hermione's ears had stopped steaming from the Pepper-Up, she took full advantage of Draco's thoughtfulness and had a small bowl of the most delicious chicken noodle soup she'd ever had; she wondered where he'd gotten it.

A knock at her door nearly caused her to drop the bowl, and Hermione didn't have time to answer it before Harry Potter opened it and moved in immediately.

"Harry!"

"You sound much better," he told her, eyeing her critically.

"I only said one word," she told him flatly.

"And that one word sounded much better—honestly, I could hardly understand you on the phone. Did you take something? Who brought you soup?"

Hermione didn't like to be questioned in a rapid-fire manner, and she was even less inclined to answer her best friend for fear of his reaction to her answers.

"Well?" he said impatiently.

Hermione sighed, "Malfoy stopped by about an hour ago…"

"So?"

"So," she said with an exaggerated roll of her eyes, "he nipped by the infirmary for some Pepper-Up and brought it by."

Harry looked genuinely perplexed, "So Malfoy brought you potion," he stated, seeking clarification.

"Yes."

"And soup?"

"Yes."

"Anything else you need to tell me before the world comes to an end? I thought I felt the temperature drop drastically…hell must have frozen over."

"He saw me in my knickers."

"What?"

Hermione spent the next few minutes telling Harry the whole sad, sorry tale. When she had finished, he had the nerve to laugh at her. "You can't expect me not to laugh, Hermione," he chided. "Were they nice knickers? Or were you wearing your 'laundry day' ones?"

"I may be a bit ill," she said furiously, "but I am still quite capable of using a variety of very inventive hexes."

Wisely heeding her warning, Harry ceased his line of questioning.

When Hermione settled in next to Malfoy during their Transfiguration class on Monday, he turned to her and said, "Well at least you wore clothes to class. I take it you're feeling better?"

Ignoring his jibe, she said, "Much better, thank you."

Professor Trumbull, who was quickly becoming public enemy number one amongst the freshman class, entered the room and began lecturing almost immediately. After class had ended, Hermione gathered her things and set off to her last class of the day—Theoretical Arithmancy, a notoriously difficult course.

"You've got another class, then?" Draco said as he fell into step next to her.

"Theoretical Arithmancy, on the other side of campus," she grumbled.

"You _would_ take that course," Draco said with a snort. "Blaise Zabini failed the prerequisite examination."

"And you?"

"Refused to take it. Honestly, if he failed I had absolutely no hope."

Hermione grinned; the test had been complex bordering on obscene. Most students failed the exam, and despite the fact that Blaise Zabini had been nearly as talented as she had been in Arithmancy, Hermione couldn't find herself surprised that he'd failed—the test was just that tough. She'd passed, but only just.

"You aren't missing much," Hermione said ruefully, "it's like a N.E.W.T. examination every day—the professor actually laughs if you come up with a wrong answer."

Draco looked horrified, "I'll tell Zabini he should be bloody thrilled that he failed."

The pair continued their idle chitchat until Hermione arrived at the classroom door; Draco, snickering at the time, wished her luck before setting off in the direction of the residence halls. It was halfway through Theoretical Arithmancy—which she was contemplating dropping—when she realised that Draco Malfoy had walked her to class. The unpleasant laugh of Professor Deerbourne brought her out of her thoughts; a girl in the front row was near tears and Hermione had to resist the urge to tell the villain at the head of the room that he was an arse. When he finally dismissed the students, Hermione thought she'd never been so relieved to see the end of a class.

After stopping by her advisor's office and filling out the necessary paperwork to remove the class from her schedule—when asked for the reasoning behind her decision, she claimed that the instructor was a sadist and that she was inclined to start a petition in order to remove him from the faculty—Hermione went up to her room.

"What's gotten you so amused?" Draco asked from behind her as she unlocked her door and pushed her way into her room.

She didn't question his presence—he lived down the hall and it was possible he was on his way out, "I've just dropped Theoretical Arithmancy."

"You sound rather proud of the fact; I can't believe you would sound proud about giving it up."

"Oh, no—I feel like the worst sort of quitter, but that's neither here nor there," she said dismissively as she tossed her bag onto the chair at her desk. She smiled, noting his confused look, "But I had to give a reason for why I dropped the class." When she had explained fully, even he was smirking.

"It would be a better pastime than that house-elf rights club you organised."

Hermione no longer took offence to anything said against her failed attempts at S.P.E.W.—it had all been said before, and she had practically been a laughingstock. "Yes, well. He would deserve it; he's so foul."

"What are you doing this evening?"

"Actually—I'm due to meet my mother in just a few minutes. She said something about shopping…"

"You look thrilled," he drawled sarcastically.

"Of course I do—I love having my appearance nitpicked by my mother."

Draco tried to suppress a snicker, and failed rather spectacularly, "I'll leave you to it, then. See you tomorrow."


	3. Chapter 3

**Project Doom**

Part III

_By: FortunaMinor_

Nearly a month had passed; the weather was turning quite chilly, and Hermione Granger had survived a cold, shopping with her mother, _and_ dealing with Draco Malfoy on a daily basis. The witch was extremely proud of herself, and Harry had taken to calling Malfoy her boyfriend, which she wasn't so pleased with.

It was a positively freezing Saturday morning in late October, and she and Draco were set to meet in a few minutes—when a knock came on her door, she was surprised to find that it was nearly ten minutes before he was due to arrive. Upon opening the door, she saw why; he stood before her in pyjamas with a robe hastily thrown over them. He looked more dishevelled than she'd ever seen him. His nose was red and his eyes were glassy—it was obvious he was sick with the cold that had been so popular amongst the students.

"I can't meet with you today," he croaked.

Her response was to roll her eyes and drag him back to his room, where she snatched the robe from his shoulders and shooed him toward the bed. When he'd settled in and looked at her balefully she couldn't help giggling, "It would figure that the only time I'd be able to tell you that you look and sound dreadful that I couldn't bring myself to do it."

She returned an hour later with a supply of Pepper-Up, which she forced upon him despite the fact that he was grumpy and embarrassed that she'd seen the steam leaking from his ears.

When Hermione stopped by with a late lunch, she assumed he was sleeping and went into his room quietly without knocking.

"Granger?" came the incredulous voice of Pansy Parkinson.

"Oh, hello, Pansy," she tittered nervously as she set the bag containing Draco's lunch onto his desk before beating a very hasty retreat.

When Draco emerged from his shower, clothed in fresh sleep pants and a t-shirt, he was met with the sight of Pansy Parkinson thumbing lazily through a set of notes so complicated she had no hopes of comprehending them. He'd left her alone while he'd gone to shower with hopes that she'd grow bored and leave; apparently that hadn't worked.

"Granger came by," Pansy said lightly as she tossed the notes onto the desk where she found them. "She's brought you lunch."

"Right," Draco said as he made short work of digging into the soup and sandwich Hermione had brought. They'd been to the campus deli only once, but Hermione had remembered what he'd ordered—a turkey sandwich on rye with only mustard and lettuce, and a small cup of French onion soup. He was glad that she'd had them leave off the tomatoes, as the very thought of them made him nauseated.

He ate in silence, though he could tell Pansy was positively bursting to question him. The moment he'd cleared away the remains of his lunch she began her interrogation.

"Why did Granger barge into your room without knocking?"

"I suppose she didn't want to disturb me in case I was sleeping."

"Does she routinely bring you lunch?"

"No."

"Then why did she today?"

Draco sighed impatiently, "Because I'm ill, Pansy. Really, are you jealous? I could have Granger bring you a sandwich if it will make you stop questioning me."

"You don't sound _too_ ill," the former-Slytherin witch said shrewdly.

"I've had a couple of doses of Pepper-Up."

"Ah, and did Granger bring those by as well?"

"Yes."

"Draco!"

"I did the same for her when she was ill; she's merely returning the favour."

Pansy looked extremely sceptical, "That's all? Since when have you been concerned enough about her to bother bringing her anything at all?"

Draco ran a hand through his damp hair, "You're looking for something that isn't there, Pansy. She's my Transfiguration partner and we get on passably outside of class—that's all."

Pansy, both his long-time friend and ex-girlfriend, eyed him for a long while as though she were sizing him up. "I don't believe you," she said flatly.

"And I don't care. I've told you the truth, and it's really none of your concern anyway."

"There's something going on, even if you don't realise it yet." With that, the blonde witch left the room leaving a scowling Draco behind.

He felt completely foolish for doing such a thing, but when Hermione looked in on him later, he feigned sleep. Pansy's words had troubled him—so much so that he was unable to sleep much for the remainder of the day despite the fact that he didn't feel particularly well.

The next morning, knowing he wouldn't be able to avoid Hermione forever, he rose, dressed and made the short walk to her room.

"You're feeling better, then?" she asked as she raised a hand to his forehead, checking for a temperature. He was uncomfortable with the familiarity of the gesture. "Well you aren't running a temperature and you look a right sight better than you did yesterday. Did Pansy see to it that you had your lunch?"

"Yes, er, about Pansy—she didn't say anything to you, did she?"

"Not a word," Hermione said with a blush. "I meant to apologise to her for just…I should have knocked, I'm sorry."

He waved her apology off, and she smiled at him. That simple act was enough to stop him in his tracks—when, exactly, had things changed between them? They had gone from outright hostility to grudging civility out of necessity…but when had they become so _friendly_ with one another?

"Malfoy, maybe you'd better be getting back to bed—you don't look so well."

He nodded absently and allowed her to shuffle him out of the room; he didn't know whether his pallor had come from his cold or from the sudden realisation that there might have been some truth to Pansy's words after all.

By the time mid-November had arrived, Hermione and Draco were at the peak of their project—things were going so well that, if all went according to plan and their research held, they would be able to submit their research, in article form, to any one of the major Transfiguration publications. Such an achievement was absolutely unheard of in undergraduate work; they both hoped to accomplish such a feat.

Draco had had two weeks to come to terms with the change in dynamic regarding his and Granger's interactions—they couldn't fight like cats and dogs if they intended to be successful, and Draco decided that their truce was a good thing. He would even go so far as to call her a friend, though he'd be hesitant in telling anyone—including her. He felt justified in his attitude toward her; she was brilliant—even he could admit that, and she could even be sort of pleasant when she wasn't trying to set him on fire.

Currently, his Transfiguration partner was on the other side of his room completing a complicated bit of spell work; he hadn't been aware that he was staring until she cleared her throat a few minutes later.

He saw confusion evident in her expression—Draco thought he would hate to have such expressive eyes, for he was much too private to allow such open displays of emotion.

"I think that's enough for tonight," she said.

"Right," Draco told her in that airy tone that practically screamed, _'I'm uncomfortable!'_

She moved to the desk and helped him clear away all of the books and the thick files of extensive notes they'd taken. When reaching for the last file, Draco had grasped it first and her hand settled atop his for a moment before she snatched it back.

"Sorry," she muttered. It had been harmless, really, but his expression was so odd—mostly unreadable, though Hermione was fairly sure she detected a bit of anger. "I said I was sorry," she said peevishly. "I didn't mean anything by it, you know. I'll go so you can wash your hand this instant—I'd hate for my mudblood germs to be the cause of your death." She swung around furiously and was nearly out of the door when he called her back.

"Granger, stop," he said in a low, even tone. She turned to face him, glaring fiercely, daring him to insult her. "You said that—not me. Remember that."

When he turned back to his desk, dismissing her, she grew indignant and forcefully tamped back the urge to stamp her foot. "Why did you look so…so…I don't know? You had the strangest expression on your face, like you were angry but fighting the urge to be sick."

Hermione Granger, while not easily intimidated, was immediately cowed when he strode toward her and stared at her defiantly. "And you assumed that I meant to call you a mudblood." Hermione nodded, albeit reluctantly. "Don't assume things about me, Granger."

She winced at the sharpness in his tone, feeling guilty for causing such a scene when their association had been relatively free of rows or duels. "I'm sorry."

He remained stoically silent, unimpressed by her apology.

"I'm sorry, alright? I'm tired and frustrated, and I took it out on you. I shouldn't have assumed anything about you. I'm sorry."

Apparently he felt that she had grovelled enough, because Draco told her that it was fine, and that he would see her in class the next day. She gave him a hesitant smile and left for her own room; he was glad to see her go.

He knew that the odd expression she'd mistaken for an unspoken slur on her heritage had been an unconscious reaction to the flop his stomach gave when she'd touched him, and he would have to deal with the ramifications of this new development.

Things had been relatively normal between them in class the next day; the conversation had as they walked back to the residence hall had also been normal, if a bit too polite.

"Let me get that Lohman book from you," Draco told her as she unlocked her door and tossed her bag down. She went to her desk and extracted a thin book bound in green leather; the book had been invaluable to their research. When she turned to hand the book to Draco, she found that he'd moved closer to her and she was suddenly standing much too close to him.

She held the book up weakly; glad when he took it so she could hide her slightly trembling hand. Hermione leaned back against her desk, grateful for the distance it afforded. "Are we still meeting on Thursday?"

He leaned in suddenly and kissed her.

It was over as quickly as it had begun; Hermione was reminded strongly of the peck that Alexander Thompson had given her in primary school.

She tried to wipe the look of shock from her face—judging by his expression, he was trying to do the same. Hermione wanted to laugh at the absurdity of it, though she knew better. Draco would feel that he was being laughed at and if she had learned anything at all about Draco Malfoy, it was that he would not abide ridicule.

Hermione noticed that he was looking at her expectantly but couldn't figure out what he wanted from her—did he want her to act like it hadn't happened? Was she expected to haul him in and kiss him back? Merlin forbid, was she supposed to talk to him about it?

"So, Thursday?" she tried pitifully, hoping that was what he wanted.

Apparently it hadn't been; his expression grew stony and he turned to go. Hermione, logical as she is, moved to number two on her list of possible reactions. She caught his arm lightly and he spun to face her—pointedly ignoring the strange expression he wore, she put her hand behind his neck and pulled him to her, pressing her lips against his in a lingering kiss.

Obviously, that had been the _right_ thing to do, for Draco moved his hand to Hermione's face and made to deepen this kiss, nipping at her lower lip to seek entrance into her mouth. Yielding to the unspoken request, Hermione allowed herself to be pushed against, and eventually up onto her desk while Draco stood between her parted thighs.

When Draco pulled away from her, Hermione, again, had the strangest desire to laugh—she had just been snogged senseless by Draco Malfoy, the same Draco Malfoy that she'd try to set on fire a mere two months prior.

She was spared the potential awkwardness of the situation by Draco brushing another kiss across her lips before departing, leaving the green book tossed carelessly onto Hermione's bed.

Disclaimer: Harry Potter and all related trademarks belong to J.K. Rowling. I am not attempting to seek profit from the use of said trademarks, nor infringe upon copyrights held by the author and various publishers.


	4. Chapter 4

**Project Doom**

Part IV

_By: FortunaMinor_

"Are you coming Wednesday night?" Hermione asked Draco as he was hunched over a sheaf of notes.

"What?" He was distracted, not by the notes, but by his thoughts. It had been three weeks since they'd kissed in her room and he'd been dwelling on it incessantly ever since; it hadn't been repeated, though he was aching to have it happen again.

Surprisingly, there had been little awkwardness between them—they'd gone about their project, sat together in class, and even had the occasional dinner together. The only noticeable difference was a sexual tension between them that most definitely hadn't been there before.

She did her best not to sigh impatiently—he had been distracted a lot lately, though the quality of his research and work remained up to scratch, so she couldn't say a word. Hermione had a feeling she knew what was troubling him…the same thing that had been troubling her since that afternoon three weeks ago. Never before, even in her wildest dreams, would she have believed being within arm's length of Draco Malfoy would send her blood thrumming through her veins; but it was truth—she couldn't deny her reaction to him.

"I asked if you were coming by Wednesday night? We're nearly set to begin drafting the report, and we've only got a week before we have to present it."

"I can't, I've got plans—it's Blaise's birthday." He didn't know why he'd felt compelled to tell her exactly where he'd be, and he felt more than a little silly for volunteering the information.

Hermione nodded; she didn't really need him there to begin work on their paper, she could start it just as easily without him. She gathered up her things and murmured her goodbye to the blonde wizard; he was already lost in thought and didn't hear her.

By Sunday evening, Hermione had finished the first draft of the article they would turn in. Normally, she would be a bit miffed at being the one responsible for the entire paper, but she found she couldn't blame Malfoy—he needed his space, and she needed to lose herself in her work.

Losing himself was something Draco Malfoy could relate to—he'd felt lost for three weeks and even as he was present for a Hogwarts reunion of sorts, he couldn't shake the haze that had settled about him.

When Daphne Greengrass sauntered up to him and twined her arm about his waist, Draco was hardly aware of her. "Pansy's told me you've been forced to partner Granger in Transfiguration, Draco. You poor thing," she cooed, "I know you must feel horrible having to spend so much time with her."

Draco gave Pansy a dark look, knowing perfectly well that she was trying to stir up trouble. Daphne Greengrass had fancied him for the better part of sixth and seventh year at Hogwarts—it appeared that little had changed on that front.

Choosing his words carefully, Draco spoke, slightly angry that most of the partygoers seemed overly interested in his response. "The term is nearly over and then I won't have Granger as my Transfigurations partner anymore."

Several people chortled, assuming that Draco would be glad to be rid of her. Pansy looked at him shrewdly even as Daphne pulled him off toward a more secluded area.

The dimly lit lounge she led him to gave Draco a remarkable amount of insight regarding her intentions; when she released his hand, Daphne pressed herself against him almost begging him to kiss her.

Draco, normal male that he is, was capable of spotting attractive witches—and, no mistake about it, Daphne was definitely attractive, but her overly forward manner was most unbecoming to Draco, who generally preferred a more subtle approach. When she leaned in to kiss him, he stepped back, nearly sending her sprawling forward. He left without another word; he didn't bother saying his goodbyes—once Daphne reappeared, furious and rejected, people would piece things together and realise he'd already gone.

Returning to his dormitory, Draco busied himself by pacing back and forth, silently ranting at himself for everything from his rude exit, to his unnecessarily cruel dismissal of Daphne, and then his avoidance of Hermione for the last week. He'd sat next to her in class, as was required, but other than the odd bit of notes, he hadn't done anything at all in working toward their project and the presentation of their findings.

He angrily tore off his robes and tossed them carelessly over his chair even as he continued to pace—he truly hadn't been this conflicted since…well, he couldn't rightly remember, but he knew he didn't like it at all. A glance at his wall clock revealed it to be nearly midnight—surely Hermione was already asleep.

Hermione had finished revising the very last section of their forty-four-page paper; though she wasn't one particularly inclined to boasting, she knew it was a damn fine piece of work. Storing their project in the bottom drawer of her desk—which she kept locked—Hermione gave a stretch and prepared for bed, washing her face, brushing her teeth and changing into a warm pair of flannel pyjamas. She couldn't believe that tomorrow would be the last day of term—she'd worked tirelessly all semester and it seemed odd that it would all end so abruptly. It would, though. In the morning, she would take her final examinations, and in the afternoon, she, along with Draco Malfoy, would present the result of their research and experimentation to their peers and professors. Yawning broadly and wondering if she would ever see Draco Malfoy again after tomorrow, Hermione slid into her bed.

She had extinguished the lamp mere seconds before her door flung open and Draco hurried in; her wand, which she had pointed directly at him, was dropped as she leapt from bed and stared at him incredulously.

"Malfoy, are you alright?" He fixed her with a pained gaze and she had her answer. It was obvious he wasn't. "What's wrong?"

He kissed her.

It wasn't the timid peck he'd given her three weeks ago; it was a kiss full of passion—of desperation and longing and Hermione gave in to it immediately. He cupped her face in his hands, quickly moving them to her shoulders and then her back and around her waist. She was pulled tightly against him and hardly aware when her legs bumped against the bed. In a move that was far bolder than she felt, Hermione scrambled up onto the bed, pulling him with her. She was fully reclined, with the blonde stretched out beside her; she was returning his kiss with equal fervour and Hermione forced herself not to jump when his hand found its way to the hem of her pyjama top.

When he'd slid his hand under it and began tracing lazy circles on the smooth skin of her abdomen she felt—well she wasn't exactly sure what it was—but she knew it wasn't enough. Her hands flew to the buttons of her top and she had unfastened the bottom three with relatively little trouble. Only the top two, the most important two, remained. It was then that she hesitated and Draco stilled, giving her a questioning glance. She nodded absently and watched as he removed his dress shirt with remarkable speed—Hermione ran her hands down his chest as he moved on top of her. Draco breaths were heavy, and turned erratic as her hand begun fumbling with his belt.

He batted her hand away, deftly unfastening the belt and the fly to his trousers as he moved in to kiss her roughly. He moved his lips to the side of her neck and, eventually, to the bit of her collarbone he could access while she was still in her pyjamas. Draco hoped she didn't notice the slight tremor in his hands as he moved to quickly rid her of the top; he'd taken care of the two remaining buttons and pushed the fabric aside so he would have an unimpeded view of her.

When Draco moved his hands to her breasts, she gasped at the new sensation. When he moved his mouth to caress them, she arched wantonly against him. He began running his finger across her hips, toying with the waistband of the sleep pants she was still wearing—she was rather impatient, for she raised her hips and wriggled out of them, tossing them carelessly to the floor.

Draco had never experienced arousal so fierce—he had nearly lost it when she'd removed her pants, leaving her naked beneath him. Hermione was moving against him and whimpering even as she tried to push his trousers past his hips; he aided her in this and was soon naked before her.

When he covered her body with his own and moved to kiss her, Hermione moaned as his erection brushed the apex of her thighs; Draco grew harder still when he heard her reaction. Sliding a hand between them, he began probing her wetness, growling lustily when he realised how tight she was around his fingers.

Hermione was having difficulty maintaining coherent thoughts, but the way his hand was moving against her told the young witch that coherent thought was probably overrated. She moved to sit up slightly, pausing to brush Draco's hand away from her centre before she kissed him and pulled him back with her.

Needing no further encouragement, Draco positioned himself at her entrance and began to enter her slowly, giving her body time to accommodate him. Draco barely noticed the bit of resistance he encountered as he pushed into her fully; he was so absorbed in the feeling of her pulsing around him, but Hermione's sharp gasp and the pressure of her nails on his shoulders confirmed what he had belatedly realised.

Doubt began to assail him at once—he would never have guessed that she was a virgin; in fact, he didn't know one Slytherin that had made it past sixth year without having had sex. He had just assumed the other houses operated in much the same manner. For seven years, she had been in constant contact with her two male best friends, and yet she had managed to remain pure.

Draco was immensely conflicted as she began to move experimentally beneath him. Most girls he knew hadn't been all that idealistic when it came to their first time, but the virgins he'd been with had at least alerted him to the fact. Now that he knew Hermione a bit better, and learning that she had been a virgin led him to believe she was the type of girl to want to wait until she was madly in love to do something important like…Draco refused to contemplate the implications of such a thing and even considered calling a halt to their situation, precarious as it was. Hermione pleaded with him to move and he complied; he was lost.

As Draco rolled off of a panting Hermione Granger, he'd never hated himself so much in his life. She immediately moved to nestle in beside him; he could see the emotions shining from her eyes, though he didn't know what they were…he wasn't sure he wanted to. He was, once again, glad he didn't have such expressive eyes.

He could tell she was falling asleep; her breathing had gone from ragged pants to slow, steady puffs of air on his chest. Draco wished she would fall asleep so he could slip out—he felt wretched, like the most despicable man alive. He was nearly desperate to escape and the thought disgusted him…Granger deserved better than that, but he couldn't give it to her. Eventually, he was confident that she was asleep; he carefully slid from the bed and collected his clothing, slipping into his trousers and leaving the shirt unbuttoned. Carrying his shoes and making sure he'd gathered all of his clothing, he moved to the door.

"Stay, Draco."

He turned slowly, reluctant to face her. Her voice was thick, though she was sitting up; the sheet covering her had slipped to her waist and the moonlight made her pale skin glow.

"I can't," he told her, his throat tighter than he would have liked.

She gave him a lopsided smile, "Of course you can, I don't mind." Draco was torn between desires—the desire to go to her and the desire to run like hell. Her soft voice startled him, "Draco?"

He swallowed thickly, "I can't, Granger."

She looked as if he'd slapped her, and he hated himself for putting that look on her face.

The silence between them was heavy and oppressive; her eyes had closed and a look of bitter comprehension was taking over her features. After a moment, she stood, pulling the sheet around her, and went to the locked drawer of her desk, mumbling the password and retrieving Draco's copy of their paper.

"The final revisions are complete. The list of questions Professor Trumbull wanted answered is on a separate sheet at the back."

Hermione's voice was composed, though Draco caught the tremor at the end. She handed the rather large stack of parchment to him and he took it, feeling foolish and despicable.

"Granger—"

"You can't even call me by my name," she said in an accusatory tone, though it was but a whisper.

"Hermione…" She snorted and turned her face from him; he could see the first tears sliding from beneath her lashes. She looked so vulnerable, the sheet clutched about her body, the moonlight causing her skin to glow and her tears to shimmer—tears that should never have been there. "I'm sorry."

"For what?" she asked stonily, not turning to look at him.

"For taking something that shouldn't have been mine."

"I gave it."

The broken tone of her whispered statement cut through him as if she were wielding a knife. Her gaze had dropped to the floor and he could tell that she was commanding herself not to shed another tear.

"Why?"

The question reverberated in the air between them, "Because it felt right. Because I was naïve enough to think…" she swallowed forcefully. "It doesn't matter why."

"You were better off hating me," Draco told her sadly. "If you don't hate me now, you will."

"Hate you?" She looked up, tearful brown eyes meeting pained grey ones, "Draco, I don't hate you, I—"

"Don't," he said more sharply than he intended. "Don't, Hermione. I can't."

"You can't what?" she demanded as she stepped in front of him.

"I just can't!" She kissed him, much like the first time she had—it was so intense that it made his chest sting and ache with awareness. When he regained his faculties, Draco pushed her back. "I can't," he pleaded. "Please understand."

Her eyes were squeezed tightly, "Get out, Malfoy."

"Hermione—"

"I'm Granger to you, I always have been and I always will be. Get out."

Her voice was ice cold and he did not hesitate to do exactly as she'd said.


	5. Chapter 5

**Project Doom**

Part V

_By: FortunaMinor_

Hermione slept restlessly, which showed plainly on her face as she trudged about campus the morning following her encounter with Draco. As soon as he'd left, the young witch had gone into the bathroom and taken a scalding shower after emptying the contents of her stomach; Hermione felt foolish and childlike. She chastised herself for being so naïve—for believing that things had changed between them _that_ much—for abandoning logical thought and doing something that _felt_ right. She saw where following emotions and hormones led her and hated herself for allowing it to occur.

Hermione had returned to her room after her final morning exam; she had nearly two hours before she was due to present in Transfigurations, and Hermione decided she would use the time to pack up her belongings in preparation for her departure that afternoon. She was glad the term was over, because she knew she'd never be able to forget what had happened in that room. She had no sooner unlocked the door and tossed her bag down when her phone chirped from the bedside table.

"Hello?" Hermione winced a bit; her voice was rough and thick. She knew Harry would demand to know what was wrong at once, and she was correct.

"What's wrong, Hermione?"

"Nothing," she lied feebly.

"Tell me this instant or I'll be over there in five minutes; you can't lie to my face, I know you better than that."

"Nothing, Harry," she insisted. "Just exam stress."

"Right," he said sarcastically before he hung up. He was standing in her room exactly five minutes later.

"You shouldn't have come."

Harry looked her over, noting how exhausted she appeared. "You look dreadful, and I insist that you tell me what's bothering you."

She hadn't meant to tell him. The words came gushing out along with a torrent of tears, and when Harry wrapped her in a firm hug she responded by sobbing harder.

"Don't hate me for this, Harry, please."

He smoothed her hair back, smiling lightly when it sprung back into place immediately. "Why would I hate you?"

"Because I—with Malfoy," she said miserably.

"That part of your life is none of my concern," he told her adamantly. "But he's hurt you, and if you give the word, I'll kill him."

She looked into her friend's face, realising that he was perfectly serious. "Don't bother," she said ruefully, "I imagine he's drowned himself in the shower already—shame from touching a mudblood and all that."

A quirk of Harry's lips told her that he was suppressing a smile, but it did not last long. His expression turned very serious and he looked to her, "I really, really don't want to ask you this," he hedged. "But were you safe?"

He watched the small frown on her face turn to an expression of unmasked anguish; he had his answer. She broke down again, curling into herself as the tears poured down her pale face. He tried to soothe her, stroking her hair and murmuring nonsensical words into her ear. Harry Potter could never have imagined this situation occurring—Hermione Granger sobbing uncontrollably because in a fit of pique…in a fit of _unprotected_ pique…she'd slept with Malfoy, given him her virginity and had her heart broken.

"When are you going home?" he asked her.

"I'm supposed to go this afternoon," she answered with a great sniffle. "How am I going to face my mum? I'm a complete mess—one look at me and she'll know something is terribly wrong and I'm afraid that she'll ask and I'll spill the whole thing out to her."

"You could stay with me."

Hermione gave a weak smile, "I'd rather face my parents than face Ron. He won't be nearly as understanding as you were, Harry." She paused for a moment. "Thank you."

"Anything for a friend, right?" Hermione had bent to dab her eyes with a tissue; she didn't see the tightness in Harry's face or the slightly pained look in his eyes.

"I'd better get my things packed, I plan on leaving immediately after Transfigurations."

Harry nodded, "You'll have to see him again, then. Be strong, present your project and get out of there, all right? The less you see of him, the better."

Hermione agreed. She hugged Harry, who promised he'd look in on her that evening at her parent's house. Thankful for being a witch, Hermione had all of her belongings packed into a magically expanded truck, which she used a charm to shrink before tossing it into her school bag. With one last, final look at the room, Hermione closed the door and set off to Transfiguration.

Draco's heart stopped when she entered the classroom and made her way to the seat next to him. She sat, took out the materials she would need along with the formal draft of their paper to hand in, and she didn't say a word. He could tell she'd been crying, and he knew he had caused every tear she'd shed. Professor Trumbull bustled into the classroom moments later and waved his wand at the blackboard, revealing the presentation order; Hermione and Draco were set to present third.

Draco sat through the first two presentations, though he had no idea if they were good—he wasn't paying a lick of attention. His mind was occupied with thoughts of the witch next to him and with his own guilt and self-chastisement. When light applause startled him, he chanced a look at her, noting that she was gathering her things and moving to the head of the room.

He spoke first, detailing their project and its outcome, and then Hermione took over, giving a truly fantastic presentation of their experimentation and conclusions. Her voice had been clear and strong and he couldn't help but admire her strength in what was obviously a trying time. Hermione and Draco were easily able to answer the questions from both the professor and their peers; when hearty applause sounded through the classroom both students breathed a sigh of relief.

Once the classroom had become silent once more, Professor Trumbull gazed at the pair of students gathering their things. His eyes held something akin to admiration, and when he commended them on overcoming their differences and learning to work together on such an exemplary project, Draco noticed Hermione's lower lip had begun trembling the slightest bit. She quickly crammed her things into her bag and fled the classroom, causing everyone to look at Draco in confusion. Gritting his teeth and quickly making a choice, he dashed after her, ignoring the whispers from the other students.

He skidded into the hallway, looking both left and right wondering which way she'd gone. Not seeing her and chancing a guess that she'd gone toward the residence hall, he ran full speed in that direction. He'd reached her room and flung the door open, expecting to find her there; he found a deserted room that held absolutely no indication that she'd ever been there. Sighing in frustration and running a hand through his mussed hair, he headed to his own room in order to pack. He, too, was going home for Christmas, and he dreaded the atmosphere in the austere manor. In that moment, Draco had every reason to believe that this would be the most miserable Christmas he'd ever had, and he knew Hermione Granger's wouldn't be any better.

Hermione had left the classroom and immediately headed to an apparition point nearby; within a minute she was standing in her old bedroom at her parent's home in Manchester. She sank onto the bed, still covered in her favourite faded blue duvet…Hermione thought she would never feel well enough to face her parents.

Helen Granger had no idea her daughter had come home, so when she passed down the hallway carrying a pile of freshly laundered towels, she nearly shrieked when she saw her daughter sprawled across her bed.

"Hermione!"

Hermione bolted upright at the sound of her mother's voice, "Mum!"

"When did you get here? What on earth is the matter with you, dear? You look terrible."

"I've been here less than five minutes, and I'm just tired, mum—exam stress."

Helen looked at her daughter, scepticism evident on her face. "Exam stress? That's all? You've never cried over your exams before." At her daughter's questioning look, Helen explained.

"You look as if you've been crying for days. So don't give me that exam stress rubbish; tell me what's wrong. I'm your mother, Hermione—you can tell me anything."

"Really, mum. I'm just tired. I was up very late last night making final revisions on my Transfiguration presentation. I need a good night's sleep and a decent meal and I'll be fine. I promise."

Helen nodded, turning to the door she told Hermione, "Dinner won't be ready for another two hours, so you just have a nap, alright?" The woman was fairly certain her only child was withholding something important.

Hermione reclined on her childhood bed, feeling ridiculous for being such a mess in front of her mother. When she awoke some time later, it was to find Harry Potter tying her hair in knots.

"Untie every one of them, or I'll do you bodily harm," she growled. Harry laughed and cast a charm to unsnarl her hair. "What are you doing here, Harry, and why couldn't you let me sleep—I hardly slept at all last night…"

"I told you I would look in on you," he said airily. "And I've brought you something." He produced a phial of lilac coloured potion, which she took hesitantly. "Drink up," he commanded.

She sat up, straightening her jumper and looking at the phial curiously. "Not until you tell me what it is, what it does, and where you got it."

"It's a contraceptive potion meant to be taken up to seventy-two hours after the fact, and I bought it from a reputable apothecary, so drink it now, or I'll stun you and pour it down your throat."

Harry's voice sounded oddly forceful to Hermione, but she knew he had her best interest at heart. She did as he'd told her to and tossed back the potion in two gulps. Immediately pulling a face she said, "Really, Harry, that's the foulest potion I've ever had."

"Hopefully this will be the only time you ever need it."

The silence between them was rather uncomfortable, which was unusual for the pair of them.

"What are your plans for Christmas?" she asked hesitantly.

"I'll be at The Burrow, of course. I couldn't go elsewhere if I wanted to. Ron said Ginny's been practically floating about the house."

Hermione snorted, "President of The Harry Potter Fan Club."

The dark haired wizard looked at her darkly, "Hermione—what are you going to do about Malfoy?"

The question caught her off guard, "Uh, about Malfoy? Nothing. I mean, what could I do?"

"You could try speaking with him—maybe owling him."

"No," she said quickly. "I'm not desperate and this is for the best. I'm not deluded enough to think I have a future with him. What I did was reckless, but I won't continue to be so stupid where he's concerned."

"Good," Harry said firmly. "I think it's for the best. I'm sorry you've been hurt, but I'm glad you'll be able to move on." He hugged her before dragging her down to dinner, which Helen had insisted upon.

"Hermione, it's Christmas Eve!" Helen Granger protested when her daughter said she didn't feel like joining her parents in their visit to their office Christmas party.

"I'm sorry, mum. I know you want me to go, but I don't feel up to it."

"You and I are going to have a talk when I come home," Helen said exasperatedly.

Hermione nodded and stalked off to her room. She knew she was being unreasonable, but she didn't feel well. She didn't feel like plastering a fake smile to her tired face and pretending that things were perfect; things weren't perfect, not by a long shot. She was trying valiantly to put the episode with Malfoy behind her, and she had been doing fairly well until she'd received an owl from him the day before. The large eagle owl had delivered the letter and she'd felt her nerves frazzle immediately. When she inspected the letter, finding D. Malfoy as the sender, Hermione tossed the letter on her desk and refused to open it.

Sinking onto her bed and irritably snatching up the book she'd been reading earlier, Hermione, hoping that the distraction would keep her from bursting into tears or a fit of temper, lost herself in the words printed before her.

Snapping her head up, she realised that she'd nodded off. A glance at her clock revealed the time to be nearly nine o'clock—she'd only been dozing for about half an hour. Relieved that she hadn't slept the entire evening away, Hermione set off down the stairs toward the kitchen for a snack, though she only made it halfway before the doorbell chimed throughout the house repeatedly. Assuming it was Harry and Ron—for Ron was fascinated with the doorbell—she pulled the door open without hesitation and nearly leapt out of her skin when she recognised the man at the door.

Draco Malfoy stood before her, clad in dark trousers and a woollen pea coat. He was shivering, and had spots of pink on his cheeks from the cold. Hermione moved from the doorway allowing him entrance; he moved forward at once, eager to escape the cold.

Hermione wanted to demand that he explain his sudden appearance, she wanted to shout at him, she wanted to run and lock herself into her bedroom, she wanted to slap him, and she wanted to cry. She did none of these things, but merely stared at him expectantly, waiting for him to speak. He didn't. He unbuttoned and shed his coat, producing from it a folded letter, which he passed to Hermione. Forcing herself not to snatch it from him, she took it placidly, unfolding the parchment and scanning its contents, eyes widening in shock when she took in its meaning.

"Published?" she muttered weakly, falling onto the settee.

He nodded, but didn't smile or look the least bit happy. He'd submitted their article to Transfiguration Today—the industry's foremost authority on innovative Transfiguration in the wizarding community—and they had sent Draco a letter straightaway informing him that the article he'd worked on with Hermione Granger would be published in the February edition.

"Thank you for telling me," she said after a moment. "But an owl would have sufficed—you didn't need to come all this way."

"I did send an owl. The letter hasn't been opened, and Manchester isn't far at all when you're apparating."

Hermione felt her cheeks flame; she should have opened the letter, but her wounded pride prevented her from doing so. "I—"

"I didn't expect you to read the letter," he said, interrupting her as he moved to sit across from her in an armchair. "I expected you to destroy it."

"Malfoy—"

"We need to talk about this."

Her stomach dropped; she would probably never be prepared to discuss that particular topic with him—certainly not so soon. "Er…"

"An inarticulate Hermione Granger?" Draco asked in a mocking tone.

"Talk, Malfoy," she snapped irritably. "And then leave, I won't have you ruining my Christmas."

She noted that he truly seemed stung by her words. "I'm sorry for what happened." Her breath caught in her chest even as the tears began to brim in her eyes. "That's not what I meant," he amended in a rush, "I'm sorry I left without an explanation. I'm sorry that I left at all."

"Why did you?" she demanded harshly, though the fierce effect she was attempting failed when her voice broke and tears spilled over her lashes.

"Because I was shocked and frightened—I didn't expect to march into your room and—well, it was unexpected. And then I realised you'd never…I felt guilty and then it was over and you looked at me and you looked so hopeful."

"You're sorry for hurting my feelings?"

"Yes."

"Is that all?"

"No!" he growled in frustration. "You're going to make me spell it out, aren't you? I care for you, you silly bint! I've been miserable for a week—my mother threatened to hex me if I didn't sort myself out! I jinxed Pansy because she told me I was pining for you!" He had begun pacing and running his hands through his hair in frustration. "I told my father I care for you!"

That had shocked Hermione...well, all of it had, really. But Draco telling Lucius Malfoy that he cared for _her_ was simply preposterous.

"He thought you'd bewitched me," Draco continued rambling. "He hauled out every text on spell detection and love potion antidotes he could get his hands on. When his revealing spells failed to turn up anything he actually threatened to send me to St. Mungo's! He thinks I've gone mad. I _have_ gone mad. Merlin, Granger, what have you done to me?"

As he continued to pace, she snatched his arm and pulled him onto the settee next to her. "You're making me dizzy," she said by way of explanation.

"That's all you have to say?" he asked, bewildered.

Hermione snorted, "What would you have me say? That I've been miserable since that night? That I hate you? That I…sod it all," she hissed. "You _knew_ that night that I loved you! I nearly told you right then, standing in that freezing room with a sheet wrapped about me! Do you know how ridiculous I felt?"

He silenced her by crashing his lips to hers; Draco couldn't help but wish she'd been that easy to shut up when they were at Hogwarts.

"Do you forgive me?" he asked when they'd broken apart.

"Are you going to do anything to make me miserable in the near future?" she shot back.

"Not to my knowledge, no."

"I suppose I forgive you, then," she sniffed.

He took her hand as they sat side-by-side on the settee. Minutes passed in comfortable silence and Hermione tilted her head, leaning on Draco's shoulder. "I've missed you, you shrew."

She sighed, "I've missed you too, you arrogant prat."

Hermione's mother ambled through the front door in that moment, leading Hermione's father—who had obviously indulged in one too many eggnogs—along by the arm. She glanced at her daughter before turning toward her husband and sending him up the stairs where he would fall asleep across the bed. Turning back to her only child, Helen Granger approached the couple, coming to stand before them with her hands on her hips.

"I take it you'll be more pleasant tomorrow?"

"I would imagine so, yes," Hermione said flatly. Draco's lips quirked upwards, obviously his mother wasn't alone in her annoyance.

Helen turned her gaze to him, "The Transfigurations partner, I presume?"

"Yes, ma'am. Draco Malfoy."

Helen's eyebrows shot to her hairline—she had heard several stories about the young man before her from Harry, Ron, and even her own daughter…none of the stories reflected the blonde in a positive light. Resisting the urge to laugh at her daughter's fickleness, Helen excused herself to attend to her husband.

"I believe the worst is over," Draco said on a sigh. "Our families are aware of the situation…though I hope your mother won't want to have my mother over for tea."

"I'll make sure she doesn't develop such a notion," Hermione said with a snicker. The idea of Narcissa Malfoy having tea with Helen Granger was positively laughable. When Hermione let her thoughts drift to visions of her father playing golf with Lucius Malfoy she was unable to help the laughter from bubbling forth. "You think the worst is over?" Hermione asked with a raised eyebrow once she'd settled down. Draco nodded and she patted his hand sympathetically. "We've still got to tell Ron."

Draco's knuckles went white even as his eyes grew stormy. Hermione's laughter rang through the sitting room; both teens thinking that perhaps their Christmases wouldn't be so terrible after all.

Disclaimer: Harry Potter and all related trademarks belong to J.K. Rowling. I am not attempting to seek profit from the use of said trademarks, nor infringe upon copyrights held by the author and various publishers.


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